Page 9 of The Sculptor

This is Duke Potter we’re talking about—the king of sarcasm. He would never let me out of this situation without a snarky remark.

“Do hear me, Dr. Potter?”

My voice rises, and I allow all the irritation with this situation to bleed into my words, which probably is not a great idea since it seems to snap Duke out of his catatonic state.

“Oh, I hear you, Ms. Ford. Very. Clearly.”

His scrutiny is not welcome, nor is his attitude, but my skin tingles under his sharp gaze anyway when he prowls towards me.

He’s yet to allow his eyes to drift to my chest, where his attention should be during this consultation. Instead, they are locked onto my face, his jaw ticking with barely contained fury.

This is not the boy who held me as I cried and promised everything would be okay.

No, this is not the boy I once knew.

And it kills me.

I can’t stand for him to think of me like this—like I’m the puppet I swore I’d never become.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I try explaining when he proceeds to circle me like I’m his prey.

“I doubt that.”

His tone is enough to irritate the dead.

If I didn’t need to behave for my ruse with Langston, I’d tell Duke Potter where he can take his attitude. Trust me; it’s not anywhere ladylike. But instead, I call on the years’ worth of debutante lessons and grit out between clenched teeth, “Let’s just get this over with, then.”

I need Duke Potter out of here, like, last year.

“Now, now. Is that any way to treat your guest?” I can feel his breath against my neck as he leans in. “Yourfiancé,” he spits out the word like a curse, “requested a consult, Ms. Ford. I’ll be sure he gets what he paid for.”

I laugh like I couldn’t give a shit—so much for the debutante skills. “Whatever.”

Langston might have something I need, but new tits aren’t part of the equation. This isn’t the first time he’s requested such things from me, but he is easily distracted. A well-placed lie and fake infections do wonders in deterring him.

I just need to endure this stupid consultation and Duke’s heavy—and very judgy—scrutiny for a little while longer.

“Whatever, huh? I don’t believe that word is very becoming of a congressman’s fiancée.”

Oh, hell no. “Are you trying to pick a fight with me, Dr. Potter? Because I haven’t forgotten how you like it.”

I can practically feel Duke’s smile as he presses against my back, his crisp suit searing my already overheated skin. To make matters worse, the scent of bergamot and patchouli saturates the air around us, igniting a familiar longing I’ve managed to smother for years.

“I think you’ve forgotten a lot of things, Ray.” He grabs the zipper and tugs, dragging his fingers down my back as the dress parts from around me. “Like your spine.” Chills break out along my skin, almost as if proving his point.

“Fuck you.”

He chuckles. “Ah, ah.” Fingering a lock of my hair, he moves it to the side and slides the straps of my dress down my arms, baring all of me. “We’ve done that already, remember? You walked away.”

Oh, fuck him and the arrogance he rode in on.

I flip around, not giving two shits about my tits shoved against his chest. “I did not walk away!”

That sharp jaw of his works as his eyes harden, certainly remembering the last time we were together. “Oh, but you did.” He lets out a scoff. “I bet Daddy is very proud of who you’ve become.”

Did I say I had great patience? Well, obviously, I overestimated my ability, because before I can compose myself, I slap Duke across the face, his head snapping to the side. “Don’t act like you know me.” I shove his chest, and he steps back. “I am not the girl you used to love.”

Redness blooms on his cheek, but he doesn’t acknowledge the slap. Instead, his face remains stoic as he steps forward, crowding me. “You’re right. The girl Ilovedwould never let a man pick her out a new pair of tits.”

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